The pool of spilt beer lay there as a reproach.  It was shaped like a map of South America and Glass kept glaring at it and couldn’t understand why the landlord didn’t wipe it up.  It had been there when he had come in and countless people had trailed their sleeves in it as they collected their drinks over the bar and the Salvation Army lass had actually stood her tin in the lake when she had wandered in—although she kept a gloved hand on it in a place like this.  Sloth offended him but the patrons of the Yorkshire Stingo obviously were not unduly worried and went about their Saturday night holiday unheeding of such wreckage. 

A crowd of rowdies came in from a football match.  They wore their scarves proudly and were in high spirits so their team must have won.  Glass thought back to when he had played a couple of games for a local side when he was a boy.  He was wondering if he could still shoot when a voice said: “It’s Mr Glass, isn’t it?”

He turned.  It was a lad—a nice looking lad of about eighteen with a cloth cap and a football scarf.  “I’m sorry…?”

“Kenny, Kenny Sage, I used to deliver the fish to Branksome House on a Thursday.”

“Oh so you did, pardon my forgetting, but I haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Nah, I got out of that game a long time ago; it weren’t worth the candle, Mr Glass, and I was forever smelling o’ the fish, like.  Since then I’ve worked in a box factory, sold brooms, driven a cart, sold cats’ meat— that didn’t half smell too—and assisted a man wot collected the rents in St Giles.”  He counted these professions off on his fingers.  “Oh I forgot; I also had a turn at sellin’ papers outside Cannon Street Station.”

“And you’ve been to the football, Kenny?”

“Nah, just met up wif some mate’s wot has; jolly lot ain’t they?  Buy you a pint, Mr Glass?”

Glass was surprised at the shout, for Kenny didn’t look to be flush with funds and his boots were a disgrace, besides, he was just about to go home.  Kenny smiled.  “Well thank you, Kenny; just a half.”

Kenny was a good talker and had a fine memory and asked after all the servants he had met at Branksome House by name.  He talked about the jobs he had been in and out of and confessed he was unemployed at the moment.  “I ain’t on the dole, Mr Glass.  I’d never do that,” he said proudly.  He spoke of someone called Ilene whom Glass took to be his sweetheart and then they fell to taking about the latest exploits in the air, which were in the news almost every day at present and provided a welcome relief to other, more gloomy, topics.

“Don’t you want to go back to your friends, Kenny?  You surely don’t want to spend your Saturday night with an old fellow like me.”

“Not at all, Mr Glass.  That’s unfair.  My Ilene is away and I likes an older gent and wot’s more they likes me, if you gets my drift.”

Glass did get his drift and was surprised.  Kenny continued in a lower voice:  “I’m not one of those sharp lads wot duns a chap for half a crown; that’s not my line at all.  I like a chap wot can teach me a thing or two and some of them likes what a young fellow can give ’em when the mood is right, like.  What do you say, Mr Glass?  My place is not far from here and I reckon I’ve had enough hops for one night; too much can lead to poor performance,” he grinned.

Glass put his unfinished half-pint down, thinking Kenny was correct.  He had been planning an early night for no particular reason, but suddenly things had changed.  Carlo would not be so slow in deciding, he thought.  He had already explained that the weekends were pretty much his own when his masters were away in Dorset, except during the Season when they stayed at Branksome House for the concerts and balls.  Wednesdays were usually his busiest days when Stephen held his regular luncheons and he explained all this to Kenny, who took an interest in the workings of a big house and again pressed him to come home with him.

Kenny had a couple of nice rooms above a shop in Bell St— a narrow thoroughfare near Marylebone Station and Glass hoped he would be able to get a bus back to Piccadilly after—after what?  He didn’t quite know, but felt excited, alive for the first time in ages.

“This is a nice place you’ve got here, Kenny.  Do you live alone?”

“Thanks.  I’ve only been here a couple of months.  My Ilene is here most of the time—’er parents kicked ’er out, but she’s gone back there to try to patch it up wif them.  They didn’t like me none too much.”

Kenny had some nice things and they were a contrast to his old boots.  Perhaps he’d bought them on hire purchase when he was working, thought Glass, and reflected that buying on tick could be dangerous.

“Right, why don’t you come and sit on the bed wif me and I’ll show you my postcards.  They might give us some ideas,” he grinned.  “You don’t have to hurry back, do you?”

“No, as I said, it is usually quiet at Branksome House until Monday morning when his lordship and Mr Knight-Poole return from Croome.”

“Well then, what tickles your fancy?”

The postcards were French and German and Arabic— or, on second inspection, pretending to be Arabic.  Most of them showed older gentlemen with young boys.  Glass found them shocking at first, but then became bored with their sentimentality.  Nevertheless he was rubbing himself through his trousers and so was Kenny.

“Tell you wot, I’ll get my togs off and so should you.  Something will come to us.”

The clothes quickly became an untidy pile on the floor.  Glass had the urge to fold them and put them on proper hangers, but he curbed himself.  “Yeah, I know it’s a bit untidy, Mr Glass, I’m a messy bugger, I’m sorry.  He got off the bed and hung Glass’ clothes over the back of a chair and put his overcoat on a peg on the back of the door.  Glass looked at him as he moved about the room naked: Kenny had white skin and good legs and not a lot of hair on his body.  His cock was of a good size and his balls were large and hung low.  “You’ve got nice balls, Kenny; anybody ever tell you that?” said Glass, as he extended a hand to feel their weight and warmth, trying not to tremble.

“A few have.  You can suck ’em if you like, but first let me look at you.”  Glass removed the last of his garments and his cock stood up hard.  “Well that’s a welcome sight.  Not bad Mr Glass,” said Kenny admiringly, “sometimes I have the devil’s own job to breathe life into some gents, but you’re as hard as a young ’un.”  Glass was pleased and shifted so Kenny had a good view.  “What’s that scar?”  Glass looked at his leg.  There was still a scar from the train accident that had killed old Lord Branksome.  That seemed a lifetime away.

“It’s nothing.”

Kenny bent this head towards Glass’ arching cock and Glass shifted the other way so that he could suck on Kenny’s balls.  Kenny said something about Mr Glass requiring no teaching and offered up his young balls while submitting his thin lips to the butler’s cock.

Glass sucked on each ball and ran his tongue wherever he felt like it.  A few strokes brought the lad’s cock to attention and Glass thought excitedly about the vigour and virility of this young roughneck of the streets of London and wondered about his other sexual encounters.  “I like your balls, Kenny.”

“Me best feature; should hang ’em on the tree at Christmas.  Do you want to stick it into me, Mr Glass?”

“What about you doing me, Kenny, if you’re up for it?”

“Up for it?” he cried offended.  “You won’t forget it, Mr Glass and are you sure I won’t hurt you.”

“Come on Kenny, empty these,” said Glass with a leer as he twisted the boy’s balls.

Kenny jumped from the bed and returned with a tube.  “Have you ever used this?”

“Of course,” said Glass, taking the tube of Spong’s Soothing Salve and applying some to Kenny and some to his own person.

“It just that if you collect fifty box tops and send them to the factory they’ll send you a cigarette lighter and if you have a hundred you go into a draw for an AJS motorcycle.”

“Good luck, Kenny.”

“Do you want to kiss me first?” he asked as he got himself hard again in contemplation of the task before him.  Glass did and it was very nice to feel the flesh of someone so young, he decided.

Kenny was as good as his word and worked Glass over well and in different positions.  Glass brought himself off while Kenny’s cock was inside him and the pleasure was intense.  “Good load, Mr Glass, you must have been savin’ it for me.”

“You can’t earn a cigarette lighter or a motor bicycle with it, I’m afraid,” he said as he wrung the last drops out as he sat astride young Kenny.  “Now lets see what you can do.”

Kenny pulled out and began to stroke himself as Glass moved off his groin.  He erupted on his own chest where his seed mingled with that of the butler’s.

“Well, wot did you fink?”

“I thought that it was as good as me at your age— perhaps even a little better, Kenny.”

“Really?”

“It was very good,” said Glass, realising that Kenny needed it to be praised, “but next time I want to see if it tastes any good.”

Kenny grinned.  “Oh it tastes good alright.  I like you Mr Glass; you’re not so shy and stuck up as you look.  What about next Saturday?”

“Fine,” said Glass as he used a handkerchief to clean himself before pulling on his trousers.  “I’ll see you at the Yorkshire Stingo.”  He walked over and planted a kiss on Kenny who was sprawled out on his bed, exhausted, taking the cigarette from his lips and then replacing it.

The excitement kept Glass going all week and he had to concentrate sometimes so as not to make a mistake.  At a dinner party on the Thursday he brought the savoury in before the dessert and had to carry it away again hastily and hope that it kept warm.  “Whatever is the matter, Mr Glass?” said Mrs Beck, the housekeeper, “That’s a flower vase not the carafe.”

On Saturday he went to the pub and Kenny was late.  He was almost beside himself and for a moment was going to abuse him, but then thought the better of it.  They had a few drinks and then walked quickly back to Kenny’s nice rooms.  Apparently Ilene was elsewhere, but Kenny offered no explanation.  This time, after preliminaries, Glass slid his eager cock into the warm insides of the lad, enjoying at the same time, the coolness of his smooth cheeks.  Kenny seemed to enjoy it too and positioned himself into all sorts of athletic and inventive poses to get the good of the fucking he was receiving.  At the moment of climax, Glass made sure that Kenny offered up his seed for him to taste.  It was nice, but different to Carlo’s.  Glass made sure to compliment Kenny and to kiss his aching balls.

When it was time to go and they had agreed to meet again on the following Saturday, Kenny helped Glass on with his clothes which he had tidily hung in his own wardrobe and held a mirror while Glass combed his hair before he caught the bus.  He left with a jaunty spring to his step.

The following night, Glass was awoken from a vivid dream, which may have included Kenny, by a piercing whistle.  He leapt from his bed and looked out of the little window that gave on to the ‘area’ by the kitchen door.  In the streetlight he could see Lily Beck blowing on a police whistle— no doubt the one that hung in the kitchen by the now open door.  He had a sinking feeling as he pulled on a dressing gown and went down the half storey to the kitchen.  Already the room was occupied by a large policeman, who must have just been in Piccadilly when he heard the call and there was Lily, her hair in a net.  In her hand she held a fearsome carving knife.  There was a third person.  He was cowering as far away from Lily as he could get.  It was Kenny.

“Mr Glass, I found this fellow in here.  The dogs must have heard him (they slept on her bed) and I surprised him.  He’s come to do us over.”

Glass realised that he had already been done over.

“We’ll need a statement Mrs Beck,” said the policeman who evidently knew Lily and stepped between her and Kenny, almost to the latter’s relief.

“Put the knife down, Mrs Beck,” said Glass.  Lily was reluctant and made a faint towards Kenny, which made him shrink back involuntarily before she threw the knife disgustedly onto the kitchen table with a clatter.

“There seems to have been a mistake.  This is Kenneth Sage who used to deliver our fish, Mrs Beck, don’t you remember him?”

It did dawn on Lily and she looked to the policeman and then to Glass.

“I met Kenneth the other day and told him to come to the house for a square meal; he’s unemployed, you see, and too proud for the dole.”  Lily looked sceptical and the policeman merely looked irritated.  “I simply forgot when I went to bed to leave out that half a pork pie for him.  He’d walked all the way to Willesden for a job.  Did you get it Kenneth?”

“No Mr Glass; it went to a fellow with more experience.”

“But how did he get in?” asked Lily.

“I left the door open.  I suppose that was risky, but I didn’t want him waking the house.”

“But I locked it before I went to bed.”

“But I got up and up and unlocked it, Mrs Beck.”  She was nearly going to say something sarcastic about why he didn’t remember to put out the pie, but knew when to keep her mouth shut.

“So no one’s pressing charges,” said the constable, glad to be relieved of the paper work.

“No,” said Glass who was thinking of how easy it would have been to make an impression of the old key and then he saw the skirts of a female outside by the railings.  The policeman looked around for a second to see if there were any more unemployed persons hiding in the kitchen and then left by the way he had come.

“I’d better being going then, Mr Glass.  Sorry for the mix-up.”

“What about your meal?” asked Lily sarcastically.

“Not so hungry now.”  And before you could say knife, he was gone.

Lily looked at Glass severely and Glass blushed.

“We all make mistakes, Mrs Beck.”

“Yes,” she replied with meaning before turning on her heel.

Glass returned to his cosy bedroom and lay down.  He cried for the first time since he was a boy.  

***** 

“I think St Paul talked a lot of rot about women’s hair, Mr Destrombe,” said Martin as he pulled on his gloves at the door of the church.

“Indeed, your lordship?” said the vicar who suddenly felt a wounding critique of his sermon on 1 Corinthians 11 coming on.

“Yes, nearly every women in the congregation this morning had her hair bobbed, shingled or Marcel waved and I did not find it shameful.  How could Miss Tadrew be shameful in the eyes of the Lord?”

“But the ladies all had their hair covered with hats, your lordship, and I think what the apostle was meaning was that…”

“Now women’s hats; there’s an abomination.  Are you sure that St Paul wasn’t referring to women’s hats and not their hair?”

“I will go back and check in the original Greek, your lordship,” replied Mr Destrombe wearily before passing on to Mr and Mrs Louch who were next in line.

“Mala,” said Stephen who had been talking to Mr Harkness, “Charles was wondering if we could go up to Liverpool next week.  He wants me to help him at the site office.”

As everyone knew who read the illustrated weeklies, the big engineering project of the last half dozen years had been the construction of a tunnel under the River Mersey to connect Liverpool and Birkenhead and it was nearing completion.  At over two miles in length it would be the longest in the world and was generally reckoned to be an engineering marvel.  As Stephen had explained, there was now a government inquiry into the possibility of building a Channel tunnel (a project once so dear to the heart of the late Senator Buckweet) and Charles Fortune’s task was to collate the relevant information from the construction of the Mersey tunnel for inclusion in this new report.  Stephen had been assisting Charles and working long hours for little money, but he was terribly enthusiastic, although it seemed dull to Martin.  Nevertheless, Martin looked forward to the miraculous day that he could travel to France without the perils of the Dover ferry.

“How long, Derbs?”

“About a week I should think.”

“I don’t think I can come.  I’m sitting on the bench four days next week as I wanted to be free to go to Antibes.  You haven’t forgotten we are off in just over a fortnight?  Teddy and The Plunger have arranged it so it would be cruel to disappoint them.”

“No, I remember.  You don’t mind if I go with Charles, then?”

“No, of course not, but don’t work too hard and please remember to eat.”  He thought for a few minutes and then said, “I want you to take Carlo to look after you— I know what you’re like when you have a project on.” 

Carlo was now the proud owner of a ‘baby’ Austin motor car, the only servant probably in the whole of Dorset to possess one.  It met with severe disapproval from Chilvers who thought it was not proper but could not articulate specific reasons for his view, only that it was, perhaps like women’s hair to St Paul, an abomination.  Carlo was forbidden to bring it to the front door and had been initially discouraged from driving wearing his valet’s togs, but it was suddenly found to be quite useful for emergency purchases in the village and when Carlo drove Chilvers over to Wareham to see Joel McCrea and Delores Del Rio in Bird of Paradise and stood him a Welsh rarebit at the pub, Chilvers softened his attitude considerably.

“No, we will take my motor, Carlo, although you might like to drive; I have a whole case of books to take, as well as our own things,” said Stephen as he was busy bundling papers into folders.

“Carlo,” said Martin, “I’m trusting you to take care of him; don’t let him work through the night; make sure he eats and Carlo…”

“Yes your lordship?”

“See that he’s well serviced, you know how it isn’t good for him to be celibate.”

“I will do my best your lordship.  Celibacy is an unnatural state for a man— especially one like Mr Stephen.”

“Indeed, Carlo and I think I will have to speak to Mr Destrombe about that; he’s become far too fond of the ancient practices of the Essenes of late.”

Carlo knew little about the Essenes and their heresies and cared even less, but he was excited about travelling back to his native Liverpool with Stephen.

It was just sunrise when they set off, Stephen driving as far as Salisbury where they stopped for breakfast.  Carlo took the wheel of Stephen’s Packard roadster and drove as far as Swindon where they halted for some tea.  Carlo loved driving the powerful car so much he was given the wheel all through Shakespeare country to Birmingham where they broke for luncheon.  A pint of beer made Carlo sleepy so he dozed while Stephen drove northwest through the industrial landscape of Wolverhampton and Chester.  It was still light when they finally reached the Birkenhead Ferry.  Carlo was roused to look at his boyhood home.  Some things looked the same, but other things were quite strange.  The skyline across the Mersey was different too: now great building like the Cunard Company’s offices and the Liver building with its twin cupolas dominated the scene.  These hadn’t existed when Carlo had left to go to sea all those years ago.

They put up at the Adelphi Hotel and Stephen went out almost straight away to see Charles Fortune and it was left to Carlo to see to the luggage and to garage the Packard.  He spent the evening hanging up Stephen’s suits and ironing his shirts with a little portable iron he had packed.  He then arranged Stephen’s books in order of height on one side of the table in the room that he anticipated would become a desk.  Then he neatly stacked the folders of documents and unpacked the portable Remington typewriter from its little case—Stephen had taken to typing using two fingers.  When all was neat and brushed and pressed, Carlo turned back the bedclothes; there was a single bed for him and a double bed for his master.  He looked at his watch, it was after 9:00 and still Stephen hadn’t returned.  He went downstairs and ate a solitary dinner and read a newspaper until 10:00 when he returned to their room.

Shortly after, Stephen bustled in clutching a portfolio of new papers, which he tossed on the table, disarranging Carlo’s careful work.  “It’s very exciting Carlo…” he began and went on to give a disquisition on chemical additives to concrete mixtures which Carlo had to feign interest in.  Then he threw himself into the chair and started to typewrite.

“Aren’t you tired, sir?” asked Carlo after three quarters of an hour.

“A bit Carlo, but there’s not much more to do.  Get out my pyjamas.”

Carlo found the lemon silk pyjama bottoms that Stephen purchased in quantity from Liberty.  He untied Stephen’s shoes as he typed and removed his tie, shirt and coat.  Stephen stood, still reading papers on the desk, as Carlo undid his belt and slid down his trousers.  As usual, Stephen was naked beneath the blue serge and then the process was reversed as the silk trousers were put on, Carlo pulling them up to his hips as Stephen leaned to get one of the books across the table, almost unconscious of the work of his valet.  Carlo did up the drawstring, brushing his knuckles on Stephen’s pubic hair, which had been shaved quite short for this trip by Carlo just the previous day.  “Thanks, Carlo.  I won’t be much longer,” said Stephen again as he sat down to type.  “Why don’t you get into bed?  I don’t think my typing should disturb you and you must be tired from driving.”  Carlo moved over to the single bed.  “No Carlo, in my bed, of course, that is if you want to.”  Carlo did want to and grinned as he took off his own clothes in the lamplight while the typewriter and its two-fingered operative clacked away.

It was getting on towards 1:00 and still Stephen worked on.  Carlo had nodded off for a few minutes but the absence of typing roused him.  “Sir, I think you should come to bed; it’s late.”

“Just a bit more, Carlo.  The damn ribbon needed changing and I’m all inky.”

Carlo got out of bed and went over to the desk.  “Oh sir, allow me.”  He rearranged the spools and then took Stephen’s inky right hand.  He brought it up to his mouth and sucked on the index finger, running his tongue over the pad.  Then he did the same to the other four fingers and the thumb.  His cock was now hard and Stephen’s was tenting the garment from Liberty.  Then Carlo stood behind Stephen and massaged his naked shoulders, which were tense from leaning over the machine.

“I’ve nearly finished Carlo; just this paragraph,” he said in a husky voice.  Carlo knew that he had got him excited and felt proud.

Carlo had nodded off when he was awoken by Stephen slipping under the covers. 

“I must service you sir; his lordship said so.”

“Do you want to, Carlo?”

“If I didn’t, could you make me?”

“What do you mean?  No one has ever not wanted to.”

Carlo rolled his eyes like Martin did.  “I mean do you think you’re man enough to force me?”

“What, wrestle with you?  Of course, but I wouldn’t do that, unless you wanted me to.”

Carlo leapt on top of him and pinned his arms back.  “Go on then.”

Carlo was strong and wirey but was only short whereas Stephen was a great slab of young muscle and stood at six foot-three.  There was grunting and straining for a few moments, headlocks were tried then abandoned and Carlo struck Stephen’s rump with a stinging slap that jiggled Stephen’s balls.  Stephen laughed and asked him to do it again.  Carlo began to fear for the hotel bed but just then Stephen managed to flip him over and it was now Carlo who was pinned to the bed.  Stephen had his legs scissored about Carlo’s thighs so he couldn’t move and his strong arms were stretched out pinning Carlo by the palms.  A fifth limb, unfair in such a contest, was hard and pressing at Carlo’s windpipe.

“I give up,” croaked Carlo and Stephen relaxed, laughing. 

“Feel these, Carlo,” said Stephen as he flexed his biceps and Carlo did, also bestowing a lick and tasting the salt.  “And these,” he said flexing his thighs then his chest.  Carlo was lost in adoration, even though he saw them every day when Stephen took his bath.  “Do you like them?”  Carlo nodded eagerly and then thought how some questions and answers must be uttered and given even though they were already known.  “Work on my balls, Carlo,” commanded Stephen who now squatted on his haunches over him.  Carlo tugged and caressed the low-hanging globes and even smacked them when Stephen asked him to.  For his part, Steven stroked Carlo’s rampant cock and ran his fingers through his body hair until Carlo cried out for him to stop.

Stephen was now on top of Carlo, their hard cocks pressed between them and Carlo was struggling for breath under his weight.  Stephen’s hot breath whispered into the valet’s ear: “Would you like me inside you, Carlo?  Would you like me to stretch you wide open?  Are you man enough to take me, take all of me; there’s no half measures with me Carlo, you know that, don’t you?”

“Indeed, sir,” said Carlo brightly, fully aware of Stephen’s courtship rituals, but beguiled by them nonetheless.  “And I aim to give service.”  He leapt from the bed excitedly and went to the bathroom cabinet and came back with a large new tube of Spong’s Soothing Salve.  “I have nearly enough for a folding pocket knife,” he said as he eagerly tore the end off the box.

“Let me see your hole, Carlo.”  Carlo lay on his back and spread his legs as wide as they would go.

“Do you like it, sir?” said Carlo because he thought Stephen would like to be asked.

“It’s not as pretty as his lordship’s Carlo, and it looks hungry to me.”

“Feed it that big muscle, sir, slowly, sir, and then fuck me as hard as you like.”

Stephen employed a couple of fingers surgically at first and opened up the hairy Italian-Scouser in preparation for his entry.  He rubbed the blunt end of his cock up and down Carlo’s slicked crack, spreading the Spong’s but also making himself harder.  He then focussed on Carlo’s sacrifice and leaned down and kissed him on the lips.  “Put your arms around me,” said Carlo urgently and arched his back so that Stephen could slide his arms underneath him and half lift him from the bed.  Stephen, without using his hands, pushed against Carlo and broke through.  Carlo gasped and then yelped.  Stephen quietened him with kisses and pressed on.  “Come on Carlo, don’t fight it; let me in, I want you to feel it.”  Carlo thought there was no doubt that he was feeling it, but could not speak or even think for a moment.  He wanted it to be over and reached back and pulled Stephen in and the tears flowed down his cheeks.  Stephen kissed them away.  “Good man, you’ve almost taken all of me.”  With a final jab Carlo felt his thighs touch Stephen’s waist and Stephen balls slap his arse.

Then Stephen proceeded to fuck him and Carlo was lost in a world of the senses.  Stephen turned him over and then soon Carlo found himself on Stephen’s lap being lifted up and down like a doll.  Carlo spilled helplessly and Stephen kissed him— Carlo was thrilled at that.  Stephen spilled inside Carlo and then Carlo found himself sucking on Stephen’s slimy cock, uncaring of where it had been—he wanted Stephen to spill again and didn’t give up until he had and swallowed it manfully.  Stephen was like a tornado and flipped himself over on his stomach and spread his cheeks, inviting Carlo to enter him.  Carlo used a dildo (which had thoughtfully been packed) and then replaced it with his own member.

“Spill in me Carlo.”  Carlo eventually did and Stephen kissed him again.  “That was first class Carlo; I feel so good.  What about you?”

“Tired, sir.”  He looked at his watch on the cabinet.  It was half-past three.  He was supposed to ensure that his master looked after himself and was equivocal about what he had just done.  Stephen didn’t seem concerned and happily pulled Carlo close and was snoring within minutes.  Carlo was suffused with happiness, but couldn’t sleep straight away; he was too sore for one.

The next thing he knew it was morning and Stephen was sliding out of bed.  “You stay there, Carlo, and rest; I’ll get myself ready.” Carlo fell back on the pillow and didn’t hear Stephen leave.  It was 11:00 when he woke again and he ran a hot bath and lowered his sore body gingerly in.  Stephen had really worked him over, yet his cock hardened as he thought of another night.

It took some time to straighten the room before the chamber maid could be admitted and who worked in the ignorance that one of the beds had been unoccupied while the other now had a wobbly headboard that Carlo did his best to repair.

Carlo then left the Adelphi and took the ferry for Birkenhead and the scenes of his youth.  The first thing that he noticed was that the smell was the same, that mixture of ozone, factory smoke, the gasworks and the sharp tang of coking coal from the ships.  Carlo climbed the curved streets from the Merseyside.  An electric tram groaned up the hill.  There was the familiar gasholder and there was the workhouse behind its brick wall.  He could hear children playing in the yard of the school he had irregularly attended about a million years ago.  He found Borough Road and the corner shop that used to belong to his cousin William Glassbottom’s family— it now displayed a sign that read ‘Frying Tonight’— it had become a ‘chippie’— a fish and chip shop.  He turned the corner into Elmwood Road and walked smartly along the deceitfully named avenue— there were no trees of any description—trying to remember which of the identical houses had been his own.  He stopped at one where a sign in the pinched bay window read, ‘Room to Let’.  Had his mother started to take in lodgers?  No, perhaps she had moved away or…he felt a pang; it had been nearly 20 years.  A woman was scrubbing a doorstep and he crossed and called out a greeting.  She paused and looked up.  “Does Mrs Sifridi still live across there.”

“No love, I don’t know no one by that name.  Agnes! She called to her neighbour who was banging a doormat.  Dizza know a family by name of Sifridi?”

Agnes thought.  “There were an old lady who died and there was some la’s and a young girl, but they moved out long ago— it were during the War, I think.  The lads went to Bootle to work on’t docks.  Another brother were a steward I seem to remember them saying.”

Carlo suddenly felt overcome with grief and wanted to cry.  He felt as if there was something in that house that belonged to him and that he must go in and secure it before it was taken away, but of course he didn’t go in and there was nothing of his there had he done so— nothing tangible.  He wished he’d never come and the pain was visceral.

He went down to Charing Cross.  It was busy with shoppers and men finishing their early shifts.  He went into the familiar Grange Hotel and had a drink and something to eat.  He began to feel a little better and wandered around the shops before taking the ferry back to Liverpool and the Adelphi.  He tried not to look over his shoulder.

In the room he looked at the plans and drawing that Stephen had left on the table.  He slowly worked out what he was looking at and how the construction he had seen at both ends would look one day soon.  It was indeed a glimpse into the future with a wide road for trucks and motors above one for trams and all fitted into a circular tunnel that described a scroll, not a straight line as he had imagined.  The mechanism for ventilating it was several stories high and formed an office building on George’s Dock and there was to be a very modernistic pair of light columns at each end.  The old town he knew was no more and it was probably all for the best, he reflected as he rolled the plans up again.

Stephen was late again and had already eaten with Charles Fortune.  Carlo quizzed him like a mother; for he knew he would have to report back to his lordship.  Stephen rattled on excitedly about meeting James Brodie, the chief engineer for the project along with Sir Basil Mott.  Professor Brodie had extensive experience with reinforced concrete for low cost housing and Stephen was just suggesting that they call in at Letchworth Garden Suburb in Hertfordshire on their way home when he noticed the look on Carlo’s face.

“What’s the matter old chap?” he asked.

“Oh it’s nothing, sir,” replied the servant as he took Stephen’s suit coat and brushed it and hung it in the wardrobe, “I just went back to Birkenhead today— to where I used to live…”

“And you found it all changed?”

“Yes, Mr Stephen, all changed and everyone gone.”  Carlo could not fight back the tears any longer and turned a distressed face to Stephen. “My mother is dead— years ago now—and my brothers and sister are gone and I never said good-bye.  I thought that part of my life was dead, but it wasn’t—not quite—and, well, it stabs at one…”

Stephen went over and put his arm around him.  “Let’s go downstairs and have a drink.”

“Oh sir, what about your work— and I think it’s far too late to be served.”

“No work tonight, Carlo.  You need a drink and we’re your family now—Martin and me.”

“It’s very nice of you to say so,” he said with a sniff, “we’re all orphans aren’t we sir?”

They went down into the deserted lounge and Stephen used all his charm on the fellow at the desk and then on the barmaid and gins and tonics were produced and Carlo fell to talking about his family in a lachrymose mood and it did him good.  It was midnight before they went upstairs again.

“Get into bed and go to sleep, Carlo; you’ll feel batter in the morning.”  Stephen was already in bed and Carlo was hopping about, picking up his clothes where he had dropped them.

“Thank you sir,” said Carlo as he slid in.

“No over here with me.” Carlo moved over until they were touching and Stephen put his arm around him.  They talked for a few minutes and Carlo snuggled up.  “Tomorrow night we will go down to the docks and pick up some sailor boys; would you like that, Carlo?”

“With you sir?  Of course! But what about Mr Fortune and your work?”

“I’ll make sure I do it all during the day; I’ll enjoy it too—you and me together.”

Carlo thought that would be very nice indeed and laid his head on Stephen’s chest, as he knew Martin did.  Then he moved his head down under the blankets—and his whole body too, until he was curled up with his head resting contentedly in Stephen’s virile lap.  He inhaled deeply and drifted off to sleep.  Stephen however could not and found he was now quite hard and his cock was broadside to Carlo’s face.  He also feared that Carlo would suffocate under the blankets especially if he should… and Martin would never forgive him if he killed their valet, he suddenly though, so he gently pulled the sleeping Carlo into a more orthodox slumber position where the air was crisper, enjoying the intimacy of their bodily contact.  He thought for a long while about families and about the past—it was indeed a different land—before he too drifted off to sleep. 

Carlo was up before Stephen was even awake and had his bath ready.  The noise of the opening wardrobes roused Stephen and he sleepily looked about him.  “Carlo, come back to bed, I might need servicing.”

“No Mr Stephen, I want to get you to Mr Fortune on time today and having had a proper breakfast.”  With the flourish of a magician he swept the bedcovers back and Stephen was exposed in all the glory of that early hour.

“Carlo,” he spluttered, laughing, “It’s cold!”

“There’s a warm bath waiting and I want you down in that dining room by 8:00.”

Stephen had no choice but to arise and he scratched his arse meditatively while Carlo bent over and tested the water.  “Aren’t you getting in with me?”

“Not this morning, now get in.” he said a trifle brusquely.

Carlo was determined to keep his mind on his work and make up for his self-indulgence of the previous evening besides, he wanted Stephen to get through his allotted tasks so they could go down to the docks while it was still light.  And Stephen was tucking into a full English breakfast not greatly after 8:00, despite having required Carlo to scrub and trim various parts that didn’t in truth need it and a good deal of splashing that necessitated Carlo changing his own trousers.

Stephen was dispatched with his leather bag containing his carefully typed notes and tables of calculations to the Tunnel offices which were within walking distance and Carlo set about straightening the room before the maid came.  He then went off to talk to the laundry maid about some shirts that had not been properly ironed.  In the afternoon he took a tram along Smithdown Rd and went to the pictures at the Grand and then waited impatiently for Stephen to return.

He was as good as his word and was home by 6:00.  They tried to make themselves look scruffy—Carlo removed his tie and Stephen left without a coat— and they went down to Huskisson Dock and entered a rough looking pub in Regent Road.  They ordered some food which was terrible but which they ate in the snug and then came back to the main bar, which was full of rough men who worked on the docks and a sprinkling of sailors from cargo vessels.  “I thought there’d be more here,” said Carlo in a low voice.  “There were in my day.” They had more beer and chatted about the old days that Carlo had referred to. 

It was getting on towards 8:00 but still light.  “What about those two over there?” said Stephen without otherwise indicating.  Carlo looked discreetly.  There were two men obviously just off a boat because they had their sea bags with them.  They were standing a little apart from the rest of the crowd and, like Carlo and Stephen, seemed to be searching for something or someone.   “Let me do the talking; I speak the lingo.”

Carlo boldly walked across and gave some sort of Scouse greeting and could be seen offering to buy the mariners a drink.  The offer was accepted and Stephen saw Carlo inclining his head in Stephen’s direction, obviously explaining he had a friend with him.

Stephen walked over.  “Who’s ya auld fella then?” said the first sailor to Carlo.

“This is me mate, Stephen.” 

A hand was extended, “Squid- for Sid.”  Stephen nodded.

“And em Eric,” said the second.  They were not young and could easily have been in their late forties.  Their faces and hands spoke of lives of hard work in the elements, but they had pleasant and open faces and accepted their drinks with good grace.  “I’m well made up that I din’ go straight home.  Thanks for the bev, lad,” said Squid.

“They’ll suck us for eight bob,” said Carlo in a low voice.

“Giz us ’arf a sheet; I got to take som’it home to me old gurl and look at the clobber on you; I kin see youse is real gents.”  Ten shillings was agreed on.

“Where does your wife live, Eric?” asked Stephen when they had followed them into the street.

“She moved out to Warrington and lives wi’ her ma, but she is a Scouser li’ me.  I’ve got free kids, in’t all, but they’ve all moved on, like.  Me lad went to London and the two girls is over in Rochdale workin’ in the Spong’s factory— that is if they hasn’t been sacked.  Do you know Spong’s?”  Stephen said he did.  “The sailor’s friend they calls it and it’s issued to all the merchant marine now.  Only ten more labels and I’ve got enough for a set of dishes for me missus.”  Stephen said that was interesting and they walked on.

“I’ve got this mate wert’s a ‘cocky’—a nightwatchman,” explained Squid.   “Ee said we could use his hut tonight until he comes on at 11:00.  Ee owed me you see.”

They came to a wooden shed in the yard of a warehouse.  “The place is empty,” said Squid indicating the warehouse.  “Don’t know why they need to have it watched.”

He produced a key and unlocked the door.  It was stale and stuffy inside, but it wasn’t cold as the summer evening was a warm one.  Inside was a narrow bed with some filthy blankets on it.  In a corner stood a packing case with a spirit lamp and tin mugs.

“Does anybody want a cuppa?” asked Eric as he put down his bag.  None did.  “Right now,” he added by way of opening business.  “That’ll be ten bob for us to suck youse gents, sailor fashion.”  Stephen handed over four half crowns and the sailors divided their booty between them.  Eric seemed to have gravitated to Stephen while Squid was Carlo’s.  Carlo speedily had his trousers down and Squid made some appreciative remarks about Carlo’s cock and balls, a little courtesy that pleased him.  He followed suit and took off his sailor’s trousers to reveal dirty drawers and a dirty cock.  Stephen liked to work naked and quickly removed all his clothes and, as his trousers fell to the floor, Eric let out a cry.  “Will youse gerra a look at dat!  Ay can’t suck ed dat!”

Squid agreed it was the biggest he had ever seen, but was disgusted at Eric’s feeble attitude. “What’s th’ mat’ah, y’ soft lad; yer call yourself a sailor?  Take yer railings out in’t will fit – per’aps,” he added.

Eric was clearly intimidated but in awe as he handled it and watched it grow and harden.  “If me missus had this ’tween ’er legs I would be home in a flash and never go t’ sea again.”  They both laughed immoderately at this joke.

“Wa’ abou’ your ma’-in-law?”

“Put t’coal scuttle on ’er barnet an’ I’d be well made up.”   They laughed again.

Squid turned to Carlo as he continued to stroke him.  “Yer auld fella,” he said inclining his head towards Stephen, “can yer take all he’s got?”  Carlo nodded.  “Yer dead jammy, you are.”

Squid took Carlo’s cock into his mouth and had it hard in just a few minutes.  He was rough and twisted Carlo’s balls at intervals and slapped him hard on the arse twice.  Sounds of choking and spluttering made them both stop and turn.  Eric had taken out his teeth and they now reposed on the packing case next to the tin mugs and Stephen was obviously enjoying the gumming he was receiving, but Eric was struggling and had turned slightly blue.  “Gerron the titties on your la’,” Squid said to Carlo.  Carlo looked: Stephen had a magnificent chest and his prominent nipples stood proud of their big, bronze areolas.

“Do you want to suck on them?  He likes that.”  They both rose, holding their cocks and went over to where Stephen leaned against the planking that formed the walls.  One on each side, they teased Stephen’s nipples, gently biting and chewing until Stephen put an arm around each of them and held them there, while Eric on his bony knees, continued to gag on his manhood.

“Yer won’ spill in ma mouth, will yer?” he pleaded as he gave his jaws a rest, but continued working Stephen’s cock with both hands.” 

Stephen said nothing, but Squid was full of contempt. “Yer a Judy, Eric,” said Squid.  “Can’t yer see the big la’ needs yer to swaller it?”

Eric couldn’t see it and said: “Well I don’t like it and neither does my ole gurl.”

“That’s not wert I heard.”

“Yer a dirty cunt, Squid.  That wur her mother, cloth ears.”  He laughed.

They swapped places and Eric took control of Carlo’s cock.  He looked about ninety without his teeth but he sucked it well, his unshaven whiskers brushing Carlo’s stomach and Carlo was getting close so he made the sailor stop.

Stephen was placed on the narrow bed on his back and Squid climbed on top, facing the opposite way.  Stephen took his cock into his mouth while Squid worked on Stephen from this new angle and managed to swallow an inch more.  Stephen’s hole was exposed and Carlo pointed it out to Eric, fully him expecting him to decline.  However his eyes lit up and said, “That’s a beautiful lad’s cunt,” and planted his face deep in Stephen’s cleavage.  Carlo was enjoying the sight and stroking himself furiously.

Stephen spilled and Squid was equal to the task.  He spilled also, into Stephen’s mouth.  Eric lifted his head, his whole muzzle covered in spit, and stroked himself, spilling over Stephen’s muscular buttocks where it was smeared messily.  Carlo was last and spilled on Stephen’s chest.

There was a lot of breathless huffing and then they cleaned themselves up with a rag, which quickly grew crusty.  Stephen saw that he was still oozing so, without thinking, he leaned down and put the tip of his penis in his own mouth and licked himself clean like a cat.

“Will you cop a gander at that!” said Eric.  I could sack off my ole woman if I could do that to meself.  You’re a marvel, lad.”

“It’s nothing,” said Stephen and winked at Carlo.

They dressed, with Squid reminding Eric to take his teeth, and then they departed, being given an extra two shillings each for fares as Squid had to cross to Wallasey where he too, apparently, had a wife and a comfortable house in which she looked after gentlemen lodgers.

Carlo and Stephen were alive with the excitement of their encounter and caught a tram on Derby Road back in the direction of their hotel.   They went straight to their room as Carlo reminded Stephen they were not properly dressed.  They returned to the lounge and began to drink and laugh—going over the evening’s daring events and imitating the turns of phrase of the sailors.  The manager glared at them, not quite liking his guests to fraternise with their servants, but did nothing.

They were very drunk when they rose in the lift to their room.  Stephen collapsed on the bed and Carlo struggled to lift him to remove his clothes.  Eventually he succeeded and climbed in too and promptly fell asleep.  Stephen must have not quite been unconscious, because he extended a strong arm and roughly pulled Carlo close.

In dawn’s early hours, Carlo awoke and immediately felt Stephen’s hard cock.  He must have been hard all night.  He gently pleasured him, causing him to wake bathed in sexual ecstasy.  At the crucial moment he swallowed as much of Stephen’s seed as he could.  “His lordship can do it without spilling a drop, Carlo,” said Stephen stretching in the bed with good-humoured contentment.

“More practice.”

Stephen was sent off to his work while Carlo wandered down to the docks once again.  When Stephen returned about 7:00 Carlo ordered a meal to be brought to the room.  He watched Stephen eat.  He had a good appetite and he had a big frame to fill.  The servant took the tray away.  Then Carlo said:  “I have a surprise for you, sir.”

Carlo lowered his trousers, “With your permission, Mr Stephen,” and touched his toes.  Stephen could see the Chinese plug.  “That’s very thoughtful of you Carlo.  You’ll be nice and open for me when I take you later.”  Then he looked again, the skin was a little red on the left cheek.  There, upon closer examination, was engraved a small tattoo in blue ink—the sort that sailors have— and it was composed of the letters S and M interlinked.

“I hope you don’t mind sir— I mean the location; it’s not very respectful, but I wanted to be discreet.”

“Well, I’m touched and Martin will be too.  We are family after all,” he said as he undid his belt.

To be continued…